


Down Below

by ClaraxBarton



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: AmeriHawk, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Canon Compliant, Clint Barton doesn't have enough coffee for this, M/M, Pre-Avengers (2012), ish, virgin! Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:53:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22152088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/pseuds/ClaraxBarton
Summary: When they defrosted Captain America, SHIELD didn't realize just how much of a pain in the ass he was going to be.Or the one where Clint gets saddled with Steve Rogers.(this summary has more innuendo than the entire fic)
Relationships: Clint Barton/Steve Rogers
Comments: 128
Kudos: 369
Collections: Charity Hawktion 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hawksonfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawksonfire/gifts).



> So, the AMAZING Hawks on Fire bid on me for some fic action for the Charity Hawktion, and was so damn awesome and generous that I wanted to write two things. So here's thing two. Hawks wanted virgin!Steve getting the sex from Clint pre-Avengers and THEN realizing Clint worked for SHIELD. 
> 
> As always, so so so much thanks to Ro for beta reading and supporting and being so freaking awesome.

The short straw was purple.

Clint drew the short straw.

Hill had been the one to collect the straws, to cut them without even looking because she was glaring at the agents as if they were whiny children.

And sure, everyone in the room knew Clint had a thing for purple. But Clint also knew Hill had a thing for making sure Clint didn’t cause international incidents. Then again, maybe Hill figured if Clint was out of the way,  _ that _ was the best way to keep him from fucking up anything bigger. So maybe the short straw  _ was _ the purple straw, in which case, Hill had to know Clint wouldn’t pick it, in which case…

Basically, he Sicilian-trapped himself into drawing the short straw.

And Rollins, Rumlow and Natasha were all assholes, because they all smirked and let out audible sighs of relief. 

Natasha just shrugged when Clint gave her a betrayed glare.

“You’re all dismissed,” Hill said, sounding her usual mix of exasperated and amused and five hundred percent done. “Except for you, of course.” She directed that last bit at Clint.

Clint groaned, slumped down in the nearest chair around the conference table and, straw crushed in the palm of his right hand, reached for Natasha as she walked by with his left.

“Please,” he begged. “Don’t you owe me for Shanghai?”

She turned her wrist in his grip, very neatly pinning his own wrist at an unpleasant angle. They grinned at each other.

“Don’t  _ you _ owe me for Lima?”

Shit. She was right. Then again-

“What about Portland?”

“Monte Carlo.”

“Alexandria.”

“Bangkok.”

“Vancouver.”

“Stop,” Hill held up a hand before Natasha could get in another word. “Barton, you’re stuck with this assignment. Romanov, I think Fury wanted you to check on Stark before you head out for Europe.”

Clint opened his mouth.

“You- She-  _ You already had another op lined up? _ ”

Natasha gave him a sweet smile, kissed his still-open mouth, and released his wrist.

“Play nice,” she said as she swaggered out of the room.

Clint turned his glare from her departing back to Hill.

Hill gave him an unimpressed eyebrow arch.

“Seriously? Why not just assign me outright?”

Hill lifted one slim shoulder.

“More fun this way.”

“Sure, for  _ you _ .”

“That’s the fun that counts,” Hill nodded, and then, switching gears so seamlessly it left Clint feeling about ten minutes behind the conversation, she pulled up a file on the tablet in her hands and put it on the table in front of him. “Director Fury wants you on him. He’s already lost the last three agents we assigned to cover him, so Fury decided to step up our game.”

“The last- He’s only been awake for a week,” Clint pointed out, looking from the image of Captain America, newly defrosted and definitely underdressed for a night on the town, surrounded by SHIELD agents in Times Square. 

Clint had been in London when Rogers was recovered, wouldn’t have even known about it except that Natasha sent him a heads-up. So there he had been, sitting in his safe house, cleaning up his bruised knuckles after some light interrogation, when the news broadcast switched to a live feed of Captain America in Times Square looking like the world’s most confused puppy.

Of course Clint had called Natasha and they’d spent a few hours trading office gossip, complaining about how easy their latest ops had been and brainstorming just how the hell SHIELD was going to deal with a problem like Steve Rogers.

Apparently, they were going to deal with it by making Steve Rogers  _ Clint’s _ problem.

“Look, Fury wants this to be a soft recruitment.”

“You mean not a life or death situation like Stark or Natasha or me?” Clint was maybe only the  _ slightest _ bit still bitter about himself and Natasha, more about having been ordered to kill a child than anything, because even if she had killed nearly two dozen people by the time she was sixteen, Nat had still been a kid when SHIELD told him to eliminate her.

“Romanov was a soft recruitment,” Hill argued.

Clint stared at her.

“What, you’re telling me my mission is to kill Rogers or convince him to join SHIELD?”

Clint, for all that he knew he was a piece of shit, knew he was also a  _ skilled _ piece of shit. He could… maybe take Rogers. With the right setup, the right prep, Clint was pretty confident he could kill just about anyone or anything. Except Natasha.

“No,” Hill growled at him. “You aren’t on recruitment this time around.”

“I wasn’t  _ last  _ time either,” Clint muttered.

“We just need you to keep him safe, monitor his status, provide feedback and intel on possible weaknesses and motivations we can use.”

Clint snorted. Glorified babysitting, that’s what it was.

“If you really want him, just tell Carter to give him a call,” he suggested.

Hill’s gaze shuttered and her mouth tightened into a small, angry line.

Clint hastily turned his laugh into a cough, but Hill looked pissed all the same.

“You already asked her and she said no, didn’t she.” It wasn’t a question, and Hill didn’t bother with a response.

Clint had met Carter, once. Back then, she had still been the Director of SHIELD - her last year, his first. He’d wondered, a lot, if  _ she _ would have assigned Clint the task of taking out a sixteen-year-old girl. He was still too afraid to ever want to ask.

“That’s not your concern,” Hill said. And sure, it wasn’t. But that didn’t stop Clint from feeling just the tiniest bit smug. Because Clint was an asshole.

“Right,” he set the tablet down on the table, folded his hands behind his head, and stretched his legs out to rest on the seat of the nearest chair. He made a show of crossing his ankles and slouching down. “So, what’s the in? Am I a new neighbor in his SHIELD-vetted apartment building? Oh, let me be a nurse. I’d love to get to know if Steve Rogers likes nurse roleplay.”

“No,” Hill snapped. “The neighbor ploy was already made.”

Clint tried not to smile. He tried for all of, maybe, two seconds. 

But  _ damn, _ there was a reason he had always admired Steve Rogers. The guy was such an  _ asshole _ , judging from the very few interviews he had given back in the day, and from the way Carter and Howard Stark had talked about him in their individual biographies. Clint could just imagine Rogers being a total dick when he made whatever poor SHIELD agent had been set up as his neighbor. 

Hill continued to glare at Clint, so he put aside his daydreaming with an overly dramatic sigh and picked up the tablet.

He scanned the intel. 

Rogers was living a hell of a quiet life post-thaw. Morning run at Prospect Park - and like hell if Clint was joining in on that;  _ he _ didn’t have supersoldier knees and liked his morning laps in the SHIELD pool just fine - then breakfast at some dive diner Clint had actually been to once, back to his dull-as-hell apartment, presumably for a shower, a few hours each day at the Williamsburgh Library, lunch at a food truck - at a few food trucks because supersoldier metabolism - then back to his apartment for a few hours and dinner, and then, inevitably, he spent the evening hours into the early morning at Goldie’s Gym. 

“Unless you’re finally gonna make all my dreams come true and give me the money to open up a pizza food truck, looks like my best in with him will be the gym.”

“Not the library?” Hill asked, not even deigning Clint’s first suggestion with acknowledgement.

“Nah, look at the titles he’s been pulling up and the websites he searches there - he’s trying to learn what he missed. If I pose as a librarian there and act all interested in helping him, he’s just gonna shrug me off. Either he’s already got a librarian doing that for him, or he doesn’t  _ want _ anyone helping him adjust. That’d be the quickest way to have him ice me out.”

“So you want to… what, approach him as a personal trainer?”

Clint snorted, imagining  _ that _ going down in a hell of a lot of flames.

“Nah, I was thinking more along the lines of gym bro.”

Hill rolled her eyes.

“He doesn’t need a spotter.”

“No, but the summary of the security cam footage says he spends his time pummeling heavy bags. I bet I can talk him into a friendly boxing match and go from there.”

Hill still looked skeptical.

“He’ll probably want to avoid risking injury to a civilian,” she argued.

Clint gave her his most shit-eating grin.

“You  _ really _ think he can resist the chance to punch this face?”

Despite her programming or whatever, Hill looked on the verge of laughing. But she kept control of herself and just nodded.

“Do what you want, just report in and don’t fuck this up. Fury wants to save Romanov for the actual recruitment, but if Rogers makes  _ you, _ we don’t have much other choice but to bring her in earlier.”

Clint shrugged. That made sense. Natasha was more Rogers’s type - brilliant, beautiful and deadly. A lot like Carter and Barnes, even without their darker hair. Then again, Natasha had been a brunette more than once, if Rogers was that set on nostalgia. 

“I won’t fuck up,” Clint said, going so far as to put his hand over his heart and give Hill a somber expression.

Hill rolled her eyes.

“You’re lucky I know about the betting pool putting odds on me kicking your ass, Barton,” she said as she took the tablet back from him.

Clint gave her a wounded look.

“But, Agent, why would you ever even think about kicking such a fine ass?”

“Out,” Hill ordered. “Report on the usual channels - don’t come back to HQ until you’re called in. We don’t want Rogers having any reason to link you to SHIELD.”

Clint got to his feet, offered up a sloppy salute - after all, Hill  _ had _ been military before Fury recruited her; a Naval Intel officer, if myth was to be believed.

Hill offered him a return salute, of the one finger variety, and Clint left the briefing room grinning.

Sure, this mission was gonna suck, but at least he’d gotten a rise out of Hill.  _ And _ he got to sleep in his own bed for a change.

-o-

The ‘sleeping in his own bed’ part was  _ awesome _ . So, so very awesome. 

So was waking up and walking downstairs to the kitchen in just sweatpants, making a pot of coffee just for himself, lounging on the couch and drinking it nice and slowly…

Hell, maybe Clint should pull babysitting duty more often.

After a certain point, however, Clint had to actually get dressed and  _ do _ the babysitting thing. Which was a lot less fun.

He tailed Rogers as the man left Prospect Park and headed back to his apartment, and, well, the  _ view _ was at least nice.

Rogers wore track pants while he ran, which was a shame because Clint was willing to bet he had some damn nice legs. But at least the pants clung to Rogers’s ass, firm curves on full display, and not a few pedestrians were distracted by the sight as Rogers plowed through them with all of the indifference of a born and bred New Yorker. It was actually kind of nice, seeing how much Rogers was  _ normal _ for all that he, well, wasn’t.

Clint loitered in the bodega across from Rogers’ dive diner while the other man ate breakfast. He noticed that the waitress, an attractive woman with dark hair, flirted with Rogers and Rogers was either oblivious or putting a lot of effort into ignoring her.

Afterwards, Clint tailed Rogers back to his apartment building. While Rogers was doing the rest of his morning routine, Clint took a stroll around the block, broke into the apartment above Rogers, inspected the security of the windows in Rogers’ apartment, and then made his way back down to the street in time to follow the man to the library.

Clint donned a hat and glasses for that, grabbed a book on the history of pizza, and made himself comfortable in a reading nook that let him keep an eye on Rogers while the man whiled away several hours on a library computer. No one approached Captain America, even though Clint was positive at least two of the librarians, four teenagers and one old lady knew that the guy in green khakis and a  _ tucked-in _ plaid shirt was the beacon of patriotism or something.

While Rogers stopped at three food trucks - falafel, hot dog, tacos - Clint made do with just a pretzel and ditched his hat after Rogers looked over his shoulder one too many times. Clint had to give him points - the man clearly knew what it felt like to be followed. 

But Clint wasn’t a mid-level SHIELD agent. Clint was the second-best field agent SHIELD had, and he’d recruited their best. And Rogers? Hadn’t been turned into a supersoldier with a keen sense of stealth and subtlety. 

Eventually, Rogers went back to his place, and Clint called a break in his own surveillance. Rogers would be in - according to pattern, at least - for the next few hours, until he went to Goldie’s. Which meant Clint had enough time to go back to his own place, catch up with a few informants who had reached out recently, eat, change and be ready to get his ass kicked.

So he did just that, unable to ignore the little knot of anticipation in his gut as the sun started to set.

No one else knew, of course. Well, Natasha maybe suspected something, but Clint… Clint had always been a fan of Captain America. First action figure he’d ever had, stolen from a second-hand store by Barney for Clint’s fifth birthday. Clint had read all the comics, when he’d been with the circus and had money for the first time in his life. Clint had seen all of the movies - from the shitty propaganda reels starring the actual Steve Rogers to the cheesy ‘60s biopics with Paul Newman to the grittier ‘70s flick with Robert Redford, and even the early ‘90s trilogy that made Brad Pitt’s career. And sure, those guys? All hot as hell and a big part of why Clint had known fairly early on - sparkly leotard and all - that he was a big fan of buff men, and sure as hell wouldn’t mind finding himself in bed with a guy who looked even the vaguest bit like Steve Rogers.

So, getting to actually  _ meet _ the man? His idol, and sure, first masturbation material? Clint was anxious. Excited. Something.

He was something, but even so, he was a professional. He wasn’t going to fall all over himself or get made or anything stupid. He was going to convince Rogers to box with him and then ask him out for a beer and become the guy’s best friend, and it was going to be smooth sailing.

-o-

Like literally everything else in Clint’s life, it was not smooth sailing.

For starters, Rogers was late. 

Clint had decided to go to the gym ahead of time, instead of following Rogers there, going by one of Natasha’s favorite Red Room adages:  _ Who follows best? The leader _ .

In theory, it was the right call. Clint warmed up and set himself up on a speed-bag, positioned nicely between the locker rooms, heavy bags and boxing ring. He even had a clear line of sight on the entrance, and old man Art’s office.

Art had already told Clint, when he walked in twenty minutes ago, that the gym closed at nine. Rogers, according to the intel reports, had his own key, knew Art from the war, and usually stayed until closer to midnight himself.

Which meant, if Rogers showed up by eight as he usually did, Clint would have an hour to convince Rogers to give him the time of day, or a fist in the face, or a beer.

Clint had done a hell of a lot more with a lot less time, so he wasn’t worried.

Until it was eight-thirty and there was still no sign of Rogers.

Clint wasn’t especially worried about not making contact on day one - hell, it might even be better for him if Rogers saw him here and Clint didn’t approach him until day two. But Rogers not showing up at all?

That was a huge break in routine for a guy that, so far, was as damn predictable as clockwork. 

By eight-forty-five, Clint had stripped off his gloves and was using his phone to see if any of the long-range surveillance on Rogers had picked up anything. 

Nothing had been reported, and Clint wondered if maybe the guy had decided to stay in for the night, was planning how to get onto his fire escape and check, when the problem himself walked into the gym. 

Bleeding.

“What the hell happened to you?” There was no one else in the gym, aside from Art and Clint, so Art was on Rogers immediately, towel in hand and scowl on his face.

Rogers looked somewhere between pissed and embarrassed as he took the towel and pressed it to his bloody nose and mouth.

“Had a discussion with a few guys,” Rogers said, voice low and deep and carrying all the way over to Clint.

Art opened his mouth, no doubt ready to call Rogers on his definition of the word ‘discussion’, but Captain America noticed Clint.

And, shit. This was  _ not _ the plan. Not at all.

“I, uh, paramedic?” Clint fumbled, feeling like a fucking  _ idiot _ because not one single intel report or Hollywood star had  _ ever _ captured just how damn blue Rogers’ eyes were, and how the fuck was he supposed to function when Rogers was using them to  _ look at Clint _ ?

Art and Rogers both regarded Clint like the absolute moron he was.

“I mean,” Clint drew on his extensive training - as a bratty younger brother, carnie, pickpocket, assassin, SHIELD bullshitter who hated paperwork - and pulled himself together. “I’m a paramedic. Can I take a look? That’s a lot of blood.”

And it  _ was _ , because it wasn’t just Rogers’ face. There was also blood on his knuckles, on the hip of his gray sweatpants and even a grimy line of it across Rogers’ tight white t-shirt-clad chest.

Art and Rogers looked at each other. Because Art was probably one of the only civilians alive who knew that this guy was  _ Captain America _ , who had documented accelerated healing capabilities. 

“I’m okay,” Rogers demurred, without sounding even a little demure. 

“Really, I don’t mind.” Clint went so far as to stand up and start walking over.

But Rogers held up the hand that wasn’t pressing a towel to his nose.

“I’m fine. Thanks for the concern.” And that was a  _ back off _ if Clint had ever heard one.

Clint held up his hands, palms out.

“Sure, sure. Sorry.”

Rogers’ forehead creased, too-blue eyes looking troubled, but he didn’t say anything else.

“Think it’s closing time anyway,” Art said, giving Clint a meaningful look.

“Right. Of course. Uh. Okay. Just gonna go grab my stuff.” Clint jerked his thumb over his shoulder, to the bag he’d dropped near the wall with his gloves and gear.

Clint picked it up, dug out the hoodie he’d packed and pulled it on before edging past Rogers and Art to the entrance.

Rogers was still looking at him, watching Clint’s every move as though Clint was a puzzle he was trying to figure out. Art was more focused on Rogers than Clint, but the tension in both their bodies made it clear they wanted Clint gone.

So he got gone.

He spent an hour outside, on the roof of a five-storey walk-up opposite the gym. Art left about fifteen minutes after Clint, locking up and turning off the exterior lights. But Rogers was still inside when Clint climbed down and walked past the front windows of Goldie’s. 

In the dim lighting, Clint could only make out the movement of shadows cast on the walls and had no clear line of sight on Rogers.

He debated hanging around longer, but he figured he would get more out of tracking down Rogers’ conversation partners than he would out of watching shadows. 

So he shouldered his bag, got a SHIELD agent to hack into the security cameras in the area, and then spent the rest of his night having a nice chat of his own with a gang of idiots who had already had the pleasure of getting lectured by Captain America on the evils of trying to steal from the homeless.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Clint dutifully typed up everything - everything except the repeat lesson in manners the gang received courtesy of his own knuckles - and sent it off to Hill and Fury before he turned in that night. 

He also drank a few beers while he was at it. And after, he took a shower, because he was sweaty from his workout and because…

Because he couldn’t stop thinking about Rogers and his  _ eyes _ and his damn jaw and that ridiculously tight, white t-shirt, and if Clint was going to be forced to picture Rogers with bloody knuckles and righteous anger in his eyes in that damn shirt, he was damn well going to do something about it.

So the shower went on for a while, because Clint was thorough. A hell of a lot more thorough than he’d been with his intel report, but that was between Clint and his right hand. And his left hand. And his nearly empty bottle of shower lube. 

The  _ point _ was that Clint crawled into bed a few hours after midnight, still pleasantly buzzed, pleasantly loose and just a little sore, and he had very pleasant dreams. For once.

Clint skipped out on following Rogers from the park to the diner the next morning, instead going to the library and parking his hipster-costumed ass in a different reading nook that would still give him good eyesight on the place Rogers routinely used.

The beanie felt weird, especially indoors and especially in  _ April _ . But the thick-framed glasses, scarf, cardigan and skinny jeans were the really uncomfortable parts of his ensemble. A fucking cardigan. At least his much-beloved pair of purple chucks went well with the look.

Clint was used to disguises - he couldn’t always hide in the shadows, after all - but being used to them didn’t mean he  _ liked _ them. That was Natasha’s gig. Clint would much rather stay back, observe from a distance. Hell, he’d rather fight from a distance, too. But if he  _ had _ to get up close and personal for his job, he preferred it to be the kind of job where he was punching things. Definitely not where he was curled up in a damn chair reading about mid-century urban planning movements and pretending he wasn’t keenly aware of every move a certain khaki-plaid combo-obsessed artifact was making.

So the morning passed but, unlike yesterday, one of the kids who recognized Rogers was brave enough to approach him.

Clint watched over the edge of his book as both Rogers and the kid turned beet red and stumbled through the exchange of an autograph. By the time the kid walked away, Rogers’ shoulders were hunched in, he was slouching down in his seat, and he looked absolutely  _ miserable _ .

Had to be weird, Clint figured. Weird to even be Steve Rogers, Captain America, in the first place. Weirder still to be a man out of time like this. And, Clint wondered, what  _ was  _ Steve Rogers these days? Was he even still Captain America? Did he want to be? Didn’t seem like it, from the way he was hiding out and not parading around Manhattan in full uniform punching wrongdoers. But then again… Hell, even Clint’s five-minute brain exercise was a mess. He sure as hell didn’t envy Rogers and whatever his actual feelings on the subject were.

Still, for all that it was a crappy morning at the library for Rogers, Clint got asked out by a hot librarian - also wearing a cardigan, but definitely making it work in a way Clint never, ever could. So, Jimmy’s phone number in his pocket and a fresh pretzel in hand, Clint tailed Rogers as he ate his way down a few city blocks and looped back to his apartment.

That afternoon, Clint sat around watching a few episodes of  _ Dog Cops _ and texted Natasha. She’d had a ‘fun’ meeting with Stark that morning and was now having even more fun sitting at JFK waiting for her plane to Paris. She complained about Stark’s narcissism, Clint gave her shit about crushing on Pepper Potts, Natasha gave  _ him _ shit about crushing on Steve Rogers - proving she did, in fact, suspect something. It was a good way to kill a few hours, until she had to board and he had to, well, do something productive. 

Laundry. 

Clint did laundry for the first time in too long. Usually, he just bought clean briefs and dropped the rest of his clothes off at the dry-cleaners between missions. 

He didn’t even hate it - hell, he kind of liked doing laundry. Liked the smell, the feel of warm clothes fresh out of the dryer, the mindless satisfaction of folding. It was a lot like field stripping a gun, and it put Clint at just as much ease.

By the time he was dressed for the gym and on his way out, he felt downright zen.

So of course someone tried to mug him.

Clint was a block from Goldie’s, and hell, Clint wasn’t a native but he’d lived here long enough and he was damn good enough at his job to have the hunch-shouldered  _ fuck off _ walk of any other New Yorker. And he was a big guy - he wasn’t a good target for a mugging.

Unless the mugging was by some asshole wanna be  _ bratva _ thugs in tracksuits. 

Which still wasn’t really a problem for Clint, even though one had a gun on him and the other a knife while he reached for Clint’s pocket. And Clint was subtly shifting his weight and preparing to make a move when, out of nowhere, like a bat out of hell or a goddamn superhero, Steve Rogers was there.

Kicking ass. Kicking ass so hard and so fast, all Clint really got to do was break the knife guy’s wrist and get out of the way of Captain America punching him in the throat. 

It happened fast enough that Rogers wasn’t even breathing hard by the time two unconscious guys were at his feet and Clint was staring at him with - yeah, okay -  _ awe _ .

“You okay?” Rogers asked, eyes dark and intense in the streetlight.

“Uh.”

“Did he cut you?” Rogers stepped closer - stepped really close.

Clint backed up, stumbling over the unconscious knife guy, and Rogers was suddenly  _ there _ , hand on Clint’s arm, holding him steady and upright.

Fuck.  _ Fuck _ .

“Hey, I think you’re in shock.” Rogers was still talking, still  _ looking at Clint, _ and it wasn’t fucking fair. 

Clint made himself get his shit together.

“I’m fine,” he said, because he fucking was. He would have been  _ more _ fine if Steve Rogers hadn’t just saved his damseled ass, but even so, Clint was fine.

Rogers gave Clint’s arm a squeeze, hand huge and so fucking strong yet stupidly gentle, and then stepped away. 

He pulled out a flip-phone and dialed 911, starting to describe the scene to police and sounding so clinical and  _ offended _ that Clint wanted to roll his eyes and just- How the fuck was this guy for real?

“Should be here any minute,” Rogers said, flipping his phone closed and turning his attention back to Clint. “You’ll have to give a statement, but then you might want to go the hospital-”

“I’m  _ fine _ ,” Clint repeated, embarrassed and a little annoyed now. Jesus. He wasn’t  _ actually _ a civilian. Did he really look that nonthreatening, that pathetic to Rogers?

Rogers just nodded, and it was clear he was humoring Clint.

“Okay. Sure. I’m sorry about last night.”

It was a bit of a whiplash, since Clint had been mid-internal tirade because he was a goddamn  _ assassin _ and didn’t need his hand held, especially  _ not _ by Captain America.

“What?” he managed, sounding just as intelligent as he had for every single conversation with Rogers.

“Last night - you were just trying to help and I was a dick. I’m sorry.”

“Oh. Uh. Yeah. It’s fine. You- you look good. I mean, nose, mouth. Face.” Clint made a vague gesture at his own, far less perfect face. “Really good.”

Rogers was staring at him, corners of his mouth tilted upwards, and Clint realized what that mess of nonsense must have sounded like.

“I mean, for a guy who-”

“Yeah, no, I got it.” Rogers was full-on  _ smirking _ now, and he was such a fucking asshole.

Clint hated him. Hated him in a way that was probably best expressed with Clint’s lips on any part of Rogers’ body.

Clint looked away.

Mercifully, flashing lights and the wail of sirens prevented Clint from further shoving his own foot in his mouth, and the next half-hour was spent giving his statement, providing the cops with the new fake IDs a SHIELD agent had dropped off at his apartment that morning after Hill got his new cover as a paramedic together - and apparently had the time to sent Clint a two-thousand word email on proper use of SHIELD resources and operational research.

But then, eventually, the tracksuit thugs were carted off and Rogers and Clint were left standing there, watching the squad cars drive away.

“The gym closes soon,” Rogers said.

Fuck. Right. Shit.

Clint was such a fucking moron.

“Well, I can skip leg day every once in a while,” Clint shrugged.

Rogers gave him a look, eyes tracking down to Clint’s legs and taking quite a bit of time to look them over before looking back at Clint’s face.

“Looks like you’ll be okay, yeah,” Rogers agreed.

And- 

Holy  _ shit _ . 

Did-

What-

“Are you hitting on me?” Clint demanded, brain absolutely giving the fuck up on trying to filter what was coming out of his mouth.

Rogers blushed. Actually  _ blushed, _ and Clint- 

Clint was not paid enough for this.

He drew in a deep breath, considered his options - let Rogers down gently; distract him with-

“Because I definitely owe you at least a beer, for saving my ass.” Apparently, Clint’s brain was still on fucking vacation.

“I guess I could let you buy me at least a beer,” Rogers allowed, smirking again like the utterly unbelievably hot asshole he was.

Clint made himself stop staring.

“C’mon, there’s a bar a few blocks that way,” Clint waved a hand negligently.

Rogers fell into step with him, and the walk, for all that it was short and brisk, was ridiculously tense. Clint was just so  _ aware _ of Rogers, right there beside him and- 

Rogers kept looking at him, slanting these glances over at Clint and then blushing and looking away again, and it was as frustrating as it was fucking adorable. 

And that was- that was fine. Rogers was clearly into Clint, and it wasn’t too unbelievable that Rogers found Clint at least mildly attractive. Clint was fully aware of what he looked like - used it to his advantage as often as he could. While he might not be Rogers’ type - certainly wasn’t the cool, collected, badass awesomeness of Carter or Barnes - Clint wasn’t hideous. 

So Rogers was cruising that adrenaline high post-fight, and hell, he’d been frozen for seventy years - he was probably horny. SHIELD intel hadn’t made any notes to suggest that Rogers had had any kind of physical intimacy with anyone post-thaw, and while SHIELD didn’t have eyes on Rogers twenty-four hours a day, they watched him enough to have a good idea.

Which meant that Clint now had a problem. A bigger problem.

Because setting himself up as Rogers’ gym bro was one thing. Setting himself up as… a hookup? A one-night stand? A  _ boyfriend _ ? That was something else entirely.

Clint had done the honeytrap thing on more than one op, so he wasn’t inexperienced with that option.

But this was  _ Steve Rogers _ . Captain fucking America. Clint’s boyhood crush. 

“Here we are.” Clint came to a stop outside of the half-lit neon sign heralding  _ Good Times _ . Rogers arched an eyebrow, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

Clint rolled his eyes.

“It’s a shithole - that’s what makes it good.”

Rogers’ lips twitched.

“Never heard it put like that before,” he said, but he stepped to the side and opened the door, because he was an asshole and a gentleman, and Clint preceded him into the bar. 

“It’s all about perspective.” Clint grinned and gestured towards an empty booth near the back of the bar.

When Rogers took the seat facing the door, putting his back to the wall, Clint wasn’t even a little surprised. He slid into the more exposed booth seat and leaned against the worn vinyl cushion until he was as close to lounging as he could manage.

Rogers arched an eyebrow at him.

“You look like you’re settling in for a nap,” he commented.

Clint smirked.

“Nah, just relaxing into that adrenaline crash.”

Rogers nodded, expression turning somber and too-blue eyes roaming over Clint’s face critically.

Clint waved him off with one hand, and then picked up a menu.

“‘M fine. Seriously. Well, my ego’s bruised.”

“Your ego?” Rogers picked up a menu as well, and his brows immediately furrowed. Clint was willing to bet that modern bar food and beer hadn’t made it onto his radar in the past week. According to Clint’s data, SHIELD had stocked Rogers’ fridge for him, so who the hell knew what he was exposed to outside of food trucks.

“Yeah, my ego. Totally black and blue right now.”

Rogers turned his attention from the menu to Clint.

“How’s that?” he asked, and there was just the hint of a curve to his lips, the asshole.

“I dunno, something about me not even getting to get in a decent punch before you swooped in to save the day?”

“You did break that guy’s wrist,” Rogers pointed out, and, well, that meant he was sharp as hell to have noticed that amidst the rest of the fight.

“So you don’t think I’m a total loser then, huh?” Clint asked with a self-deprecating smile.

“Not a total one,” Rogers agreed with a nod.

Clint rolled his eyes at the asshole.

A waiter came up to their booth.

“Hey fellas, what are we in for tonight?” he asked.

Clint manfully resisted the urge to make that into something lewd.

“Amstel for me,” he said.

Rogers was back to scowling, flipping the menu from one side to the other even though the list of beer was small and confined to the bottom of the back.

“The same,” he eventually said, still scowling.

The waiter nodded, but before he could head out, Clint stopped him.

“How about some potato skins too? And mozzarella sticks.”

“No problem, boss,” the waiter said. He looked at Rogers again, but when the other man said nothing he walked off to put in their orders.

“Plenty to share,” Clint said. “If you want.”

“Never had potato skins before, or the mozzarella sticks,” Rogers admitted with a sigh.

Which… wasn’t really surprising, since a week ago the last meal he’d eaten had probably been rations and, well, served in 1945.

But for someone attempting to blend in?

“Raised under a rock?” Clint asked.

Rogers rolled his eyes but his scowl slipped. He shrugged.

“More like a hospital bed. I was sick a lot as a kid, not a lot of food agreed with me… and then after…” he waved a hand vaguely.

“After you…?” Clint prompted. Because  _ he _ knew what the after was, but, well, that wasn’t the game.

Rogers frowned and picked at the laminate on the menus.

“I joined the army. Spent a lot of time in the field. Not a lot of… potato skins or mozzarella sticks.”

Clint nodded.

“How about any hot guys in need of a rescue? Run into a lot of those in the army?”

Rogers’ scowl eased into something that might have been a very slight smirk.

“One or two,” he said.

The waiter dropped off their beers, and Clint hesitated long enough for him to be out of earshot before he spoke.

“So I’m not your first?” Clint winked, and Rogers…

Rogers turned red, a full-on Irish blush that started with the tips of his ears and spread down his chest as far as Clint could see.

And that…

Sure, it was innuendo. Maybe Rogers was a bit of a prude? But the guy  _ had _ been in the army. And he’d worked with Howard Stark - and Clint had read that man’s memoir. Subtle and discreet weren’t words someone could ever use to describe the man.

Rogers had been born nearly a hundred years ago, to be fair, but still. That kind of blush…

Clint’s line of work meant he had had to get very good at reading people, at following his gut and trusting his instincts.

And his instincts said no way in hell was Rogers a prude.

So either he was thinking really, really filthy thoughts about Clint and was embarrassed to be caught at it or… Or the man was a fucking virgin. 

“Bold of you to assume you’d be on the list at all considering I don’t even know your name,” Rogers muttered, still blushing.

“Shit. Sorry. I-” Clint laughed at himself and shook his head. “I was too busy feeling like an idiot and then trying to subtly check you out. Matt Michaels.” He went so far as to extend his hand across the table to Rogers.

“Steve Grant. And you weren’t that subtle.” Rogers shook his hand, though, blush finally starting to recede.

“Neither were you,” Clint grinned and, just for the hell of it, winked again.

Rogers snorted a laugh and released Clint’s hand.

“So, Matt, what’s it like being a paramedic?” Rogers asked the question with seemingly genuine interest instead of just an attempt at small talk.

Clint rolled his shoulders in a shrug. He’d done enough ‘don’t you dare fucking die on me’ field medicine to be able to convincingly play his part in some regards, but in others… He was used to patching-up people - usually himself - who were shot or stabbed or blown up. Not people in car accidents or domestic disputes or… or anything from his childhood, now that he let his mind take a very dark walk down that road.

“Tough, rewarding. What about you? Still in the army?”

“No. I’m out now.”

Rogers didn’t offer anything else, and Clint wasn’t about to push. Not yet, anyway.

In any case, their waiter returned with their food and Clint became immediately, intensely distracted by watching Steve eat a cheese stick. 

Really, there was no way in hell eating a fried stick of cheese should be any kind of erotic. But Steve Rogers? His lips around the thing? The way his eyes lit up? The  _ sounds _ he made?

Clint was going to be haunted forever.

He plowed through his own half-ish portion of the food, edging a few extra mozzarella sticks and potato skins towards Rogers but definitely still indulging himself.

They decimated the food in surprisingly - or maybe not-so-surprisingly - short order.

“Huh,” Rogers said, empty plates between them and a contemplative expression on his face.

“So, as far as new experiences go, did I strike out?” Clint asked.

“Right now, you’re batting a thousand.” Rogers gestured to the empty Amstel bottle at his elbow and the empty plates on the table.

Clint smirked.

“In that case, what else can I interest you in trying out?”

Rogers arched an eyebrow, too-blue gaze taking Clint in and- and the man was absolutely not blushing now.

Their eyes caught and held, and Clint could damn near  _ feel _ the tension between them now.

He forced himself to swallow. Rogers’ eyes followed the movement and they turned just a bit warmer, somehow bluer - or maybe Clint was just being an idiot. Either way…

Clint licked his lips. This was gonna be a risk. A hell of a risk, and it was probably going to get him fired because there was no way in hell it would work and, frankly, whether or not this gave him an ‘in’ with Rogers for SHIELD was the absolute furthest thing from his mind.

“My coffeemaker?” he offered. 

Rogers’ heated glance immediately shifted into one of confusion, that furrow reappearing between his eyebrows.

“My water pressure? Shower’s actually really awesome.”

Rogers’ confusion was easing a bit, replaced by something that was either exasperation or amusement. Maybe it was both.

“What about your bed?” Rogers beat Clint to it, and Clint had to grin.

“I mean, if that’s what you want,” he tried for nonchalant.

Rogers gave him a long, considering look. Clint felt a moment of terror - that he’d misread  _ everything _ , that he’d pushed too fast, that he was going to  _ never live this down _ , that his childhood crush was about to laugh in his face.

“Yeah,” Rogers said. “That is what I want.”

Clint fumbled with his wallet - because Matt Michaels was the kind of guy who got anxious when the hottest man on the planet agreed to go home with him. Not because  _ Clint _ was anxious or anything.

He had enough cash that he could just drop it on the table instead of needing to use a card, and that meant both he and Rogers were scrambling out of the booth, neither of them any kind of cool or chill or  _ anything _ other than in a rush to get the fuck out of there.

  
Even so, all they traded on the walk back to Clint’s apartment were looks. Long, lingering looks that felt like a fucking caress over Clint’s ass, and Clint -  _ Matt _ \- tripped a few times because Rogers’ ass in those shorts was a thing that mandated his absolute focus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so 3 chapters instead of 2....


	3. Chapter 3

It was a miracle they made it back to the apartment at all, considering that Clint walked  _ past _ his street and had to take them in a block-long loop around, and Steve - of fucking course - noticed and smirked because he was an  _ asshole _ .

Clint -  _ Matt _ \- fumbled with his keys just as much as he had with his wallet, and the situation was not helped at all by the literal furnace of Rogers’ body so close to his, nearly touching his back.

But then, finally, they were in Clint’s apartment and he could drop his gym bag and toss his keys and back Rogers up against the door and-

And the sheer weight of  _ what the fuck am I doing _ ? hit Clint all at once when Steve’s too-blue eyes fixed on his own pale eyes.

Because, seriously,  _ what the fuck was Clint doing _ ?

He was about to fuck Steve Rogers - man of his literal dreams - his mission. Which wouldn’t really be a problem, except for the fact that this wasn’t  _ for _ his mission. Not at fucking all. In fact- in fact, this-

“You’re freaking out,” Rogers observed, sounding rather calm himself. 

Fuck. Clint was so unraveled that Rogers was actually able to read him. This- this was not good. None of it. He should make some kind of excuse, get Rogers out of here, go back to operation gym bros and-

“Matt, do  _ you _ want this?” Rogers asked, his tone low and soothing.

Clint stared at him.

“What?”

“You don’t- you don’t actually owe me anything, you get that, right?”

“What the- Fuck no, no,  _ no _ . I want this. I want you,” Clint rushed to assure him because Rogers actually looked on the verge of bolting himself now and- ”This isn’t about that. This is about how stupidly hot you looked last night with a bloody nose and a shirt five sizes too small for you. And because you’re an asshole.”

Rogers stared at him, long and hard.

“My shirt was not five sizes too small.”

Clint snorted a laugh.  _ That _ was what Rogers had taken away from that verbal nonsense?

“I’m still getting used to the washer and dryer in my apartment,” Rogers continued. He reached out, one large hand sliding along Clint’s waist and hooking around his back. Rogers gave a gentle tug, reeling Clint in until they were pressed together, chest to thighs. “Maybe you could help me with that too, huh?”

“Don’t push your luck, buddy. I’m already committing a Nobel Prize-level act of generosity offering to let you experience my coffee.”

“Uh huh. Well, I’m gonna try to convince you.”

There was a reason Rogers was considered to be one of the greatest tactical minds of the twentieth century.

His methods for ‘convincing’ Clint started with his mouth - and Rogers… Clint hesitated to think that Rogers kissed like he punched, but there was a sort of bold, head-on, ‘subtle as a shield to the face’ kind of way that Rogers pressed his mouth to Clint’s and  _ devoured _ him.

And Clint had zero complaints.  _ Zero _ .

Especially not when Rogers continued to lean back against the door, holding Clint tightly against him and just… kissing Clint into mind-numbing pleasure. And that was just the  _ kissing _ .

Rogers’ hands, big and strong and gentle and calloused, moved from Clint’s waist to his ass and thighs, and up his back and into his hair, and it was  _ all _ so good. Clint didn’t think he’d ever been touched like this, like a puzzle Rogers was trying to figure out. 

And hell, Clint hated inaction, so he was not only thoroughly enjoying Rogers’ attention but he was reciprocating the hell out of it - kissing back and tangling his tongue with Rogers’ and tasting him and swallowing all of the small noises Rogers made.

Clint smoothed his hands over Rogers’ broad shoulders and down, taking the opposite path that Rogers had, until he settled his palms over the firm, round globes of Rogers’ magnificent ass.

“Bed,” Clint said against Rogers’ soft, slick lips. He used his grip on Rogers’ ass to pull the other man away from the door.

“Gotta try out that mattress,” Rogers agreed, lips curling into a smirk.

_ Asshole _ , Clint thought, entirely too fondly.

-o-

Usually, Clint woke to the annoying howl of an alarm - or seven. He woke up suddenly and angrily and hated the world until he had at least two cups of coffee in him, and even then, his miserly feelings were only toned down to mild annoyance.

So he was more than a little shocked to find himself slowly - and without outside sound assistance - waking up. He was warm and sore and-

And not alone.

There was a goddamn octopus - octopus on  _ fire _ \- wrapped around Clint and trying very intently to crush/suffocate/consume him. 

While Clint was no stranger to one-night stands, he usually insisted on going to  _ their _ place, and he never stayed the night. Waking up with someone in his bed… It had been a hell of a long time.

And, well, he’d never woken up in bed with  _ Captain America _ and his morning boner making a valiant attempt to entice Clint into searching for the condoms he had tossed to the side last night after- 

After some really intense sex.

Intense not just because, well, Rogers was intense in the same way that the sun was bright; but  _ intense _ because Rogers had a thing for eye contact, because Rogers made these punched-out shocked gasps of pleasure, because Rogers  _ smiled _ and kept asking Clint if it was good and- 

And, basically, Clint was well and truly fucked.

From his mouth to his ass to his… heart? Clint was fucked.

Rogers nuzzled into Clint’s hair, nose grazing over his scalp and down to the short hairs at the nape of Clint’s neck before Rogers placed a soft kiss there.

Fucked. Clint was  _ so fucked. _

“Morning,” Rogers said, voice rough with sleep and sounding a hell of a lot like he had last night after he had taunted Clint into fucking his mouth.

“Morning,” Clint responded, feeling all kinds of stupid and… and all kinds of  _ good _ when Rogers stretched and pulled Clint tighter to him.

It made Clint’s heart do a weird, uncomfortable stutter-step. 

“You know,” he said, pushing the feeling away, “this is, uh, not really my usual thing.”

Rogers snorted a laugh, a warm puff of air that tickled Clint’s ear, and his left arm lazily stroked over Clint’s hip and thigh. 

“Me either,” Rogers said.

Which Clint knew, because SHIELD would definitely make note of Rogers going over to strangers’ houses and sleeping with them if-

“This, uh, I was a virgin before last night.” Rogers delivered the words in a rush, and it sounded like a challenge. Felt like it too, with the way Rogers’ body tensed around Clint’s.

And… there it was.

Clint had suspected, of course, because of that damn full-body blush Rogers had treated him to at the bar, and again, last night, when he had his lips around Clint’s cock and Clint told him he looked gorgeous.

Clint was  _ fucked _ .

Even as alarms were going off in his head - alarms warning Clint that Hill and Fury were going to have his  _ ass _ and alarms shrieking that Clint was a fucking  _ idiot _ \- Clint drew in a deep breath and caught Rogers’ wandering hand.

He laced their fingers together, squeezed gently, and felt Rogers relax the slightest bit.

“Well,” Clint forced levity into his voice, trampling over the alarms and his rising tide of anxiety, “pretty sure I didn’t teach you too many bad habits.”

Rogers seemed to be holding his breath while Clint spoke, and he let it out in a rush when Clint finished. He also rolled onto his back and pulled Clint with him, so that Clint was above him and looking down.

There was that blush again.

And with the way that Rogers’ eyes were sparkling…

Clint groaned.

“You keep looking at me like that, and we’re never gonna try out the shower or the coffee pot.”

“Promise?” Rogers’ full lips curved into a smirk, and he gripped Clint’s hair and tugged his head down to kiss him.

It saved Clint from having to lie, and he was damn grateful.

-o-

After Clint had succeeded in fucking up Rogers’ daily routine to the point that some sad SHIELD operatives were going to have an aneurysm, he finally sent him on his way. After lunch.

After shower sex.

And couch sex.

And hand jobs in the kitchen while waiting for the coffee.

And more shower sex.

And-

And it turned out, the serum - or hell, maybe it was 100% original Rogers - gave the man a hell of a libido and stamina that even an eighteen year old Clint would have had trouble keeping up with. Clint at thirty-two? By the end, by their last tangle with Clint’s sheets - so that Rogers could confirm just how good Clint’s mattress really was - Clint was just able to lay there and take it - happily - while Rogers rode his dick.

So, now Clint was on his third shower of the day, body beyond sore and brain… beyond melted.

He dressed in his favorite pair of sweatpants, forgoing underwear and a shirt because Rogers had gotten a bit carried away with gripping Clint’s hips and using his  _ mouth _ on Clint’s chest, and putting anything on was just going to irritate his skin.

And then he stripped the bed, put on clean sheets, and sat on his floor and stared at the ceiling.

He was so very,  _ very _ fucked.

As if he’d put up a damn bat signal, Natasha texted him and asked what he’d fucked up while she was gone.

It made him laugh. And if the laugh kind of hurt? Felt a little raw and like broken glass? Well. That was probably from all the head he’d given Rogers. 

He assured her that even he, Clint Disaster Barton, could go twenty-four hours without her and not fuck up something.

Her response was an ellipsis. Because she wasn’t dumb. And Clint was.

Clint held the phone in his hands and stared at it, on the verge of spilling the entire  _ mess _ he’d made, but then Natasha sent another text.

**We’re doing the right thing, aren’t we?**

Immediately, Clint stowed his shit.

Natasha Romanov was a lot of things, and she questioned damn near everything. But this -  _ this _ kind of question wasn’t something she had directed at Clint in years. Not since she’d hit her stride at SHIELD. Not since after her mission in Tehran where the scientist had died and she had nearly died. 

Clint wracked his brain to think of what her op was - something about gun smugglers in Russia. Which, by itself, wasn’t anything that exciting or… doubt-inspiring. But  _ Russia _ . 

Had she run into someone? Learned something? Lost someone?

**_I don’t think we’re doing the wrong thing_ ** .

It was the only response he could think to give her, and it was… far from adequate.

**We need a vacation. When I get back we’re going to Greece. That beach where we had a threesome with the fisherman.**

Clint huffed out a laugh. It was clear Natasha was pushing aside her own moment of indecision, compartmentalizing like she always did. He could call her on it - he  _ should _ . But…

But Clint had just spent the night - and morning - fucking a  _ virgin _ Steve Rogers because he wanted to and not at all because it might be good for SHIELD.

And speaking of doing the  _ right thing _ \- 

Clint genuinely felt nauseous at the thought of going back to the gym, of becoming Rogers’ gym bro or his  _ boyfriend _ with this between them, with Clint’s task of spying on him and- 

He was fucked.

**_Navagio_ ** . 

She had to know which beach it was, but he couldn’t muster up anything beyond sharing that trivial piece of intel.

**Two weeks. As soon as I get back.**

**_Copy that_ ** .

Hell. It  _ did _ sound nice.

Clint closed his eyes and dropped the phone to the floor.

He was fucked and, what’s worse, he was compromised.

His job was to gather intel on Rogers, to figure out what his weaknesses were so SHIELD could exploit them and get him to join the agency.

But Rogers - Rogers was a guy who hadn’t experienced mozzarella sticks before last night. A guy who’d just given - and received - his first blow job. A guy who made dumb jokes about thread counts and looked ridiculous with a mouth full of mouthwash and- 

And he didn’t  _ want _ to join SHIELD. If he did, he would have already. Wouldn’t he have?

Was Clint really comfortable being the guy who gave SHIELD what they needed to get their hands on him? When Peggy Carter had - probably - told them to fuck off? Them being the agency that  _ she _ had built?

Clint groaned and glared at his open closet, at the suit he wore only rarely.

Fuck.

-o-

It was too damn early in the morning when Clint walked into SHIELD HQ the next day.

Even with three cups of coffee in him, Clint didn’t want to be there. Didn’t want to do this.

Except, well, he  _ needed _ to do this. And Clint had never backed down from the shit he needed to do.

So, he squared his shoulders, pasted on his bland ‘I’m pretty and dumb’ smile when he boarded the elevator with a handful of suit-wearing office drones, and prepared to torpedo his career.

Hill was, fortunately, between meetings when Clint strolled up to her office on the nineteenth floor.

“Barton, what part of ‘don’t come to HQ unless necessary’ wasn’t clear?” she asked him without looking away from her computer monitor.

“This is necessary,” he assured her and sat down in one of the excruciatingly uncomfortable chairs across from her desk.

That got her attention, and she flicked her gaze over him, took in his suit and his almost-tamed hair.

“What did you fuck up?” she asked with a sigh.

Clint opened his mouth, ready to defend himself - and then confess everything - but Hill held up a hand.

“Is this about Rogers?” she asked.

He snapped his lips together and nodded.

Hill punched something into her desk phone, and a second later, Fury’s voice came over the line.

“Sir, Barton and I need a word. Are you available?”

“What the hell has he-? I’ve got twenty minutes. Get your asses to my office.”

Hill gave Clint a look, and Clint scrambled to his feet and followed her out of her office and back towards the elevators.

Yep. He was so very, very fucked.

Fury’s office was just as welcoming as it had ever been - which was to say that Clint had been tortured in more comfortable rooms before.

The man himself was on his feet, hands behind his back, decked out in his full, standard  _ I will fucking kill you _ leather gear, and he looked even less pleased than usual to see Clint and Hill walk into his office.

Hill took a seat, close to the door, back to the wall, clearly prepared to take any kind of action necessary based on whatever Clint was about to say.

He idly wondered if she was going to shoot him.

Clint stayed on his feet, back to the opposite wall, and looked between Fury, Hill, and the closed door. He doubted he could make it out before Hill took him down. 

“Coulson?” Fury’s voice startled Clint.

“Uh, he didn’t have anything to do with-”

“I’m still on the line, sir,” Coulson’s voice cut through Clint’s mumbling. 

Right. Of course. Coulson was Clint’s handler, and while he was away on assignment, he was  _ still _ … still going to need to know what Clint had done.

Clint closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. Small mercy, at least, that Coulson wasn’t here in person, that Clint wouldn’t have to see the look of disappointment on his face.

“Alright. Agent Barton, what was so urgent that you needed to go against protocol and ruin a damn boring morning?”

“It’s about my current assignment. Sir,” he hastily tacked on.

“Is there a problem, Agent?” Fury asked in his most dangerous voice.

“Sir, I need to be reassigned.” There, it was out - not so hard, after all.

Hill and Fury both looked at him with completely inscrutable expressions.

“Barton?” It was Coulson, on the phone.

“Uh, yeah?”

“There’s a reason we chose you for this assignment. We need you to do this.”

Clint closed his eyes.

Fuck. 

There it was. Coulson’s ‘disappointed dad’ voice combined with his ‘you can do this, slugger’ voice.

Clint opened his mouth to respond, to spill his guts-

Someone knocked on Fury’s door.

Hill and Fury exchanged looks.

“What?” Fury bellowed, not making a move towards the door.

“Rumlow, sir. We’re here about-”

A lot of things happened all at once.

Hill jumped to her feet.

Fury damn  _ glided _ across the room towards the door.

The door opened.

Clint forgot how to breathe.

Rumlow and Rollins were big guys, leaders of STRIKE Team Alpha and two of the most annoying douchebags Clint had had the questionable pleasure of working with at SHIELD.

But they weren’t big enough to block Clint’s view of the man standing behind them.

Steve Rogers.

And Rogers- 

Rogers’ gaze immediately honed in on Clint.

His too-blue eyes went wide and then narrow, and his jaw locked. His shoulders lifted. His chin tilted up.

Clint was fucked.

“Gentlemen,” Fury drawled, calm as anything.

Hill crossed her arms, arched one eyebrow and looked over Rumlow, Rollins, and Rogers as if she was already bored with their presence.

“Sir.” Rumlow nodded towards Fury, and then made a gesture towards Hill. “Captain Rogers, this is Agent Hill.” He jerked a thumb towards Clint. “And that’s Agent Barton. He’s one of our field operatives. STRIKE Team Delta. When you’re working with us, there’s a chance you two will go on missions together. Slim chance, though. Barton and Romanov are usually paired together.”

It was perhaps the only time in the  _ entire time _ Clint and Rumlow had known each other that Rumlow didn’t try to insult him.

Rogers finally looked away from Clint.

“That certainly gives me a new perspective to consider,” Rogers said, his glare fully focused on Fury now.

And shit.

Rogers had assumed that the sex was Fury’s idea. It was so clear and so damn obvious to Clint that Rogers was more than pissed off. He was  _ wrecked _ by the thought, by-

“Steve, it wasn’t-”

Rogers’ gaze was instantly back on Clint, skewering him and shutting him the hell up.

“It was nice meeting you, Agent,” Rogers said, his voice colder than the ice he’d been frozen in. “Agent,” he flicked his gaze to Hill.

“Rogers,” Fury sighed, sounding ready to just nuke the whole world, “let’s just-”

“Sir, my answer is the same. I’m not joining SHIELD.”

And with that, Rogers turned on his heel and stalked away.

It took a moment for Rumlow and Rollins to follow, but they did.

Leaving Clint alone with Fury and Hill. And Coulson still on the phone.

Fury turned to glare at Clint in a swirl of black leather.

“I’m not gonna ask,” Fury decided, “because I’m not sure I can handle whatever reason you have for screwing up the most  _ important operation we’ve ever assigned you to _ .”

Clint swallowed. That jagged glass feeling was back, and just as unwelcome as it had been yesterday.

“Write it up and pack your bags. You’re going to the Mojave, and you’re going to babysit Selvig at PEGASUS.”

Guard duty.

Guard duty for scientists playing in the dirt, working on a project that had sounded so damn dull when Hill described it that Clint had actually fallen asleep on his feet.

“Hill, get him out of my sight.” Fury waved a hand and turned his back to them.

Clint once again followed Hill from the office, but instead of returning to her office, she punched the lobby button on the elevator.

He didn’t know what to say to her. It wasn’t like they had ever been on the best of terms anyway, and now…

“Stay away from Rogers,” she sighed. “I know you like to clean up your messes, but leave this to us.”

Clint tried to think of- of what? What could he  _ possibly _ say or do in this situation?

“Verbal confirmation, Agent.”

Well, shit.

SHIELD had recording devices everywhere, and Hill stating that Clint needed to  _ speak _ meant that she was planning on needing this audio later. In case Clint needed to be… dealt with.

He drew in a shaky breath.

“Understood,” he managed.

“Get yourself on the next flight to LAX, and we’ll handle transport from there. I expect your full report of the last forty-eight hours no later than midnight tonight.”

“Understood,” he repeated.

The elevator doors opened, and Clint hesitated.

“Time to move on, Agent.”

Her words made Clint laugh, a bitter, twisted thing that jumped out of his mouth without his consent.

He stepped out of the elevator and caught the look of dismay on Hill’s face.

“Move on to what?” he asked her.

But the elevator doors closed, and even if they hadn’t, Clint doubted she would have had an answer for him.

So Clint did what he did best: he buried everything down as deep as he could, he put on his ‘I’m pretty and dumb’ smile, and he squared his shoulders and prepared to bullshit everyone around him.

-o-

* * *

Ohhh it’s the end because we all know what happens next.

(Loki and The Avengers happens next)

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> The thrilling and sexy conclusion will be up soon!
> 
> Just wanted to get this first part out into the world so I felt productive for the week. Part 2 should be up before week's end!
> 
> \--  
> My new posting goal for 2020 is to post fics/updates 1-2 times a week. I've got one more Charity Hawktion fic to write and then I will be back to my WIPs and all those new fics I'm itching to write.
> 
> Also, also: I'm getting sliced and diced on January 27th so I will be out of commission that last week of January. I'll be adding these post-notes to all my updates for the next little bit just FYI.


End file.
